


A Precious Gift

by stitchcasual



Series: Kiss Me Like You Mean It [9]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Withdrawal, disordered sleep, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: A quiet moment between Hawke and Cullen(summaries suck, this is 90% angst and 10% fluff, so come on in if that's your thing)





	A Precious Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GothicPrincessWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GothicPrincessWitch/gifts).



> Prompt 20 (top of head kisses)  
> <3 <3 hope you like it, friend!!
> 
> Spoilers contained within for [Chapter 36](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7733971/chapters/24041778) of "Albatross", though this is an AU offshoot  
> Should at least vaguely stand on its own without that context, though

They’ve been staying up later these days, neither of them keen to leave the other to a night of dreams. Hawke still sleeps in the guest room when he’s over, the last vestiges of propriety that don’t even matter to the gossipmongers among the Templar ranks. If one were to listen to them, Hawke is taking advantage of the Captain at every turn and has deflowered him in some fairly creative ways since he’s been back. It’s as amusing as it is unsettling. He’s warned Cullen of the rumors on more than one occasion, but either the man doesn’t care or he doesn’t want to admit to it because he just shrugs and changes the subject whenever it’s brought up.

Tonight Hawke is stretched across the couch, head on one armrest, feet on the other, as Cullen rummages through the fridge for more beers. They’d had a couple with Donnic earlier when he was over to speak about the progress made in approaching other Templars about turning state’s evidence. Long story short, it isn’t going nearly as well as any of them would like. Cullen is still upset about it; he’d believed more of the men might be amenable than the evidence may now suggest. It probably didn’t help that Hawke had been combative throughout the meeting, much less inclined to give these Templars the benefit of the doubt than Cullen and much more willing to raise his voice about it. They haven’t spoken much to each other since Donnic left, just sitting and drinking in silence. Even with all of that, though, Hawke is unwilling to leave the Captain’s house and sleep apart tonight.

Many are the nights Hawke has stayed here, avoiding the lyrium-laced food provided by the Templar cafeteria so he can dream in safety, in a room no one will enter but him, with a friend who understands what he’s going through. Many more are the nights Hawke can’t help but sleep at the safehouse, eat the food there. The times he’s out on a job until late with barely enough strength left to crawl into his bunk… Then he takes his breakfast with Margitte, hating the Templars more with each bite. He’d purge it all out of his system if he weren’t convinced that the lyrium would still be absorbed quicker than he could act.

He hates the nights afterward, the calmer nights when his mind doesn’t fixate on the guilt but offers kind memories, smiles and laughter, when it produces anything at all. Hates his desire for these dreams.

The nights Carver stands before him, talking to him as though nothing has happened, are the worst of all.

Hawke accepts the beer Cullen offers him as he passes to sink into his armchair, and they stay like that for a while, drinking without speaking. They each have a lot on their minds, and the set of Cullen’s lips says he’s trying to put it behind him, which, Hawke now knows from experience, means he needs to be quiet until Cullen has processed things and spoken first. He sets his beer, still half-full, on the coffee table and closes his eyes.

When Cullen draws back to himself, the first thing he does is look toward Hawke. A soft, fond smile blooms on his face when he realizes that Hawke is asleep there on the couch, breaths slow and even, one hand fallen to the floor while the other rises and falls on his chest. Peaceful. At least for now. He doesn’t move, keeps his beer bottle in his hand rather than place it on the table where it could make noise, and just watches Hawke sleep. It isn’t something he usually gets to see, after all, with Hawke in his own room at night. Occasionally he has peeked in on early mornings when his own pain and nightmares get too intense, though more often than not he simply passes by the room, allowing Hawke his privacy. He’s both seen and heard Hawke thrashing and moaning in his sleep before and is grateful that for now, at least, he is resting. It is a fine line that Hawke flirts with, going on and off lyrium. It isn’t omnipresent in his blood like it had been in Cullen’s for years, but the constant switching back and forth is still wreaking havoc, he can tell. Though naturally temperamental, Hawke has been more moody lately, swinging quickly from one extreme to another. It is a mania that Cullen knows all too well, though he had hoped,  _ prayed, _ that Hawke would be spared the worst of the symptoms, but the Maker, in his wisdom, does not always grant prayers. So it is up to him to do what he can to soothe and mitigate, though he doubts his ability to do much of either.

Hawke’s breathing speeds up and Cullen leans forward, keyed in at the sign of Hawke’s potential distress. He still doesn’t move, loathe to interrupt what could turn out to be a simple shift in dreams. As much as possible, he wants Hawke to experience what good can come from sleep even as he worries for him, fretting over what he can’t control, what he told Hawke was his own decision. He doesn’t have to like it, though, just respect it.

Hawke’s next exhale comes with a whine, and he can’t take it anymore. Cullen stands, setting his bottle down lightly on the coffee table, and skirts around it until he’s by Hawke’s head. Then he hesitates. This is a boundary they have not crossed, though as with nearly every other one, they have come close, stopping just shy and dancing back. There is little enough truly between them at this point. Still he hesitates, unsure if his interference will be welcomed or spurned and desperate to not cause further pain to a man who already bears so much.

A low moan followed by a breathless, “no...no,” makes up his mind for him. Cullen gently slides his hands under Hawke’s head and shoulders, lifting just enough to allow him to slip onto the couch. He carefully situates himself, back to the armrest, one leg along the back seam of the couch, settling Hawke’s head on his chest. Hawke cries out softly in his sleep but does not wake.

Cullen runs his hands slowly over Hawke’s shoulders, down his arms, and back up, hoping Hawke feels it as a comforting sensation in whichever dream has hold of him. He can’t tell, can’t know for sure until Hawke does something else, but he keeps it up, feeling some of Hawke’s muscles twitch and then relax, and that at least gives him hope. He can’t tell how much time passes and avoids looking over at the clock in the kitchen that he knows he can see from here. He doesn’t really want to have a distinct measurement on this moment.

The time they have alone together is rare, these days, as they spend much of their waking hours apart, working in their various capacities at advancing the interests of the Templar Order even as they try to undermine it. The time they are together, Donnic is also often present, being a key component in the whole undertaking. Any time with just the two of them feels precious, like a gift not to be squandered. Or, it does to him, anyway. Cullen cannot speak for Hawke and whatever feelings the man may hide away in his heart. He hopes...but hope can be dangerous thing, easily twisted and mangled by hostile forces. Or ignorant ones.

He closes his eyes and sighs, hands stilling on Hawke’s biceps. Hawke is quiet, the dream having passed, snoring gently. Cullen smiles, pleased he’s resting again. Before his mind can quite register what he’s doing, and prevent him from crossing yet another boundary, he bends his neck and presses his lips to the top of Hawke’s head, between the neat rows of dreadlocks. He lingers there, a bit too long perhaps, savoring the sensations of skin and hair against his face.

Hawke wakes with a start and a groan, raising a hand to his head and staring in confusion at the hand that isn’t his resting on his arm. He blinks, his mind fuzzy with sleep still. “Cullen? Wha—?” He licks his lips, pushing up a little and turning so he can look at him. Cullen is one of the delightful shades of pink he turns when he’s been caught doing something sweet, and Hawke smiles sleepily at him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Cullen murmurs, frowning. “Is...this alright?”

Hawke nods and pillows back down on Cullen’s chest. “‘S fine,” he says, his words muffled by Cullen’s shirt. He flips over to a more comfortable position, facing the back of the couch, and tucks one arm up along Cullen’s, resting the other on Cullen’s leg. After a brief pause, Cullen wraps his arms around Hawke’s shoulders and torso, absently rubbing circles with his thumbs.

Hawke sighs happily, his eyes closing again. He nearly drops back to sleep with Cullen there around him but fights it for just a minute longer. “Do that again?” he asks, voice soft and mumbly. “The...on my head?” Cullen smiles and obeys, setting another long kiss where he had planted the first.

“Of course.” Hawke hums as Cullen kisses him yet again. “Sleep, now. I will be here.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt me!](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/159868019924/fictional-kiss-prompts)


End file.
